


The Smell of Sawdust in the Morning

by KuriNCIS (KuriKoer)



Series: Wake Up Call [3]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boat Sex, M/M, Morning After, Power Play, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-27
Updated: 2010-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriKoer/pseuds/KuriNCIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after; Palmer wakes at Gibbs' place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smell of Sawdust in the Morning

===========Gibbs' morning:===========

 

It's been a long time since Gibbs did anything like this.

Even longer since he did any _one_ like this. Palmer is...

Sweet, really. Eager. Eager to please, eager to be pleased, that's good. Smart, quick thinker, quick learner. Mouth a bit quicker than brain, but that can be helped with, on a professional level, and isn't such a bad thing, in Gibbs' un-humble opinion, in the personal field.

He takes another sip of coffee and thinks.

Didn't quite expect Palmer to approach him. Oh, he knew the boy was having these thoughts, could read it plain as day in his eyes, but that was just Palmer. He had thoughts, and wasn't that good at hiding them; thoughts about Abby, for example, or those longing glances at her boots. Thoughts about Ducky, which the good doctor was either oblivious to, or discouraged in silence. Gibbs wasn't sure, at the time. He brought it up with Duck on one of those rare occasions when they found themselves in bed together.

"Oh, I think he's harmless enough." The older man dismissed his question, but he did it ambiguously enough to leave an opening. Gibbs never pursued the matter again.

And then, last night.

Or really, the whole day before. Gibbs takes another sip, letting the warmth scorch his throat, letting the kick of caffeine hit his system. He doesn't know what pushed Palmer over the edge; doesn't care. He only knows that the young man finally decided what he wants, and went to get it. And that, Gibbs feels, is commendable.

His work boots were in the back of a cupboard down in the basement, behind a deflated football and a dusty pile of magazines. He places them in a conspicuous spot right next to the front door.

 

===========Palmer's morning:===========

 

Palmer wasn't sure, when he drove from his place to Gibbs', if he'd walk in to find the man fully decked in leather and be led on a leash to a fully-equipped playroom, or if Gibbs would offer him a cup of coffee and a conversation about why he shouldn't be having these feelings. He simply walked up, fresh from a shower, pink and tingling, his hair still damp and curled, his mouth dry, tongue wetting his lips as he knocked on the door, uncertain as to what would wait behind it. And what waited was Gibbs.

All that was in his mind was Gibbs' authority, his dry, terse orders, barked in that voice that expects to be obeyed; his rough hand and the light taps that promised so much more. What he found was Gibbs' fondness, his humour, his intelligence, his knowledge of man and how to manipulate man; what he found was twinkling eyes and a warm laugh and someone who knew how to play him so well he was left dazed with it.

He opens his eyes to the morning after.

He's in the same narrow bed that was so magical last night in the warm lamplight; now the day is bright behind still-drawn curtains. The sheets are yellow, the covers dark blue. Palmer rolls on his side, cocooned in warmth. His glasses wait on the nightstand. A different man might have been awkward about waking alone to the stale smells of sex in another man's house; a different man might be embarrassed at the stinging sensation when his backside rubs against the raspy sheets.

Palmer is oblivious in his afterglow. His only sensation is a rested well-being.

His clothes are on the back of a chair. Dressed, he wanders out, finds a bathroom and washes his face and his mouth as best as he can. He lowers his pants and tries to crane his neck backwards to see yesterday's telltale signs on his fair skin.

Then he pulls them up again and goes in search of Gibbs.

 

===========Their morning:===========

 

"We have two hours." When Palmer walks into the kitchen, Gibbs is already shaved, dressed, and well into a pot of coffee. "You're up early."

Palmer stretches, feeling a pleasant ache. "I slept like a baby."

Gibbs pauses. "Please don't say that."

Palmer can't help a grin. "I slept like a guy who had really good sex last night."

Gibbs returns his grin. "Better."

Gibbs' demeanor doesn't encourage any morning-after awkwardness. They sit on mismatched chairs, drinking coffee from large, rotund mugs, one in black with a red heart, one in red with a black heart.

"I like the mugs," Palmer comments carefully.

"Gift," Gibbs says. "From Abby."

Palmer smiles at that. "They're... friendly."

Gibbs ignores the comment.

Palmer looks around. Now that his mind is less fixated than it was last night, he notices details. "I thought your place would be more Spartan," he says, not really thinking.

Gibbs shakes his head ruefully. "Oh yeah? I'm surprised you didn't think there would be a dungeon."

Palmer looks into his cup of coffee. Then he glances up hopefully.

"I don't have a dungeon, Palmer," Gibbs says, with wry patience.

Palmer chuckles uneasily. "I didn't really think there would be one," he says.

"I have a basement," Gibbs says. "There's a boat in it."

Palmer nods. He's heard about the boat.

"I could tie you to the keel." Gibbs leans closer, staring at Palmer over the breakfast table with an amused twinkle in his eye. His words bring back yesterday's events in full force. "You ever had sailor fantasies, Jimmy?"

Palmer swallows hard and shuts his eyes tight. His treacherous cock stirs. "Not until just now," he manages a hoarse whisper. Somehow, the fact it's full daylight, at the breakfast table, makes the suggestion different. It hits him harder.

Gibbs leans back, warms his hands on his coffee mug, and looks pleased with himself. 

Palmer struggles to find something to say. "I did like Treasure Island," he finally notes, "but that's pirates."

Gibbs arches an eyebrow and hides a smirk. "Pirates?"

Palmer nods enthusiastically. "Long John Silver had a kind of a charm to him, don't you think?"

Gibbs laughs softly into his coffee.

Palmer gazes into his own drink and feels his cheeks pink up. His attempt at diversion to more harmless grounds didn't quite work; in fact, it backfired.

"So, you were Long John.... in those fantasies?" Gibbs asks with genuine interest.

"I was Jim Hawkins," Palmer blurts. He doesn't elaborate. There's a great vast difference between a boy's adventure fantasies, and those of a man in his twenties. He's strangely glad that Gibbs reignited... whatever it was he started last night.

"Cabin boy, right?" Gibbs laughs again, the same quiet, pleased laugh. "I'll keep that in mind."

Palmer's full of giddy, expectant hope.

"Not now, Palmer," Gibbs says and leans back in his chair, finishing the last of his mug, "we don't have time for anything complicated now."

"I thought we had two hours." Palmer tries not to pout. It's impolite for a guest to be greedy, he thinks, although usually that applies to a second helping of cake, not a second helping of Gibbs.

"I'm not playing pirates with you now, Palmer," Gibbs says, resolute and final. Palmer acknowledges it with a nod, and gives up. At least for the moment.

"Do we have time for something less complicated?" he asks shortly after, when Gibbs is washing his cup in the sink.

Gibbs glances over his shoulder. "I can show you the basement," he says. 

Palmer smiles.

He's not sure what to expect; not a dungeon, but maybe something, a possible playroom, manacles on the walls. He toys with the idea, knowing it's ridiculous. He opens the door and looks downstairs...

"It's just like woodshop," he breathes, "some kind of dream woodshop." 

Gibbs is right behind him, so close Palmer feels the warmth along his back. The hairs on the back of his neck stand.

"Let me guess. You like that too," Gibbs whispers.

Palmer inhales deeply and his eyes half-close.

"Good boy," Gibbs murmurs, walks around him and down the stairs.

Palmer hurries after him. "It's just the smell of sawdust, and of paint," he explains, "and glue... not that I enjoy sniffing glue," he adds quickly, at Gibbs' glance.

"Sawdust is kind of a big thing around here," Gibbs says shortly. He looks up at Palmer, who has still not descended, and runs a hand on the very bare frame of a boat-to-be. Palmer hurries to him.

"It's new?" He takes a look at the planks, very few, lined up like a whale's skeleton, taking up so much of the space but not blocking the light from falling on every corner, every wall, every pile of objects, of tools, of sawdust.

"Just started it." Gibbs is gruff but pleased; proud of his boat, pleased to be starting on a new one. Even considering what happened to the last. "You know anything about boats?"

"Not really." Palmer's smile is undeterred, dazzling. "But I can sand anything you point me to."

"I'll keep that in mind," Gibbs says, and without warning, grabs Palmer and shoves him against one of the vertical beams, leaning close.

Palmer's mouth falls open and he arches back, fitting himself on the curve of the wood.

"Like that?" Gibbs asks in a low voice.

In answer, Palmer slides down a little, knees bending, and rubs himself back against the hardness of the bare boat.

"Thought you might," Gibbs murmurs. His weight presses Palmer to the wood and his lips touch Palmer's, craning the younger man's head back. He inhales deeply and his hands wrap around Palmer, as well as the beam behind him. The edges are sharp against Palmer's spine and ribs.

Palmer says nothing, only gasps, when Gibbs' mouth leaves his and starts wandering, seemingly aimless, along his jawline and down his throat. He feels Gibbs' exploring lips rasping against his sparse morning stubble. His own hands are on Gibbs' shoulders, steadying, and then he slides them under and in front, undoing buttons one by one, aching to see in the bright sunlight what he didn't get even a glimpse of the night before.

When Gibbs' shirt is finally undone, the white fabric of his undershirt is pushed up to reveal a wide expanse of sparse graying hair over solidly defined muscle, and Palmer slides slowly to his knees, kissing, mouthing, licking and lightly biting everything on the way. He keeps his back against the rib of the boat for as long as he can; eventually, he rests his head against Gibbs' abdomen, rubbing lightly, and his ass is pressed uncomfortably against solid wood.

Without asking, he undoes Gibbs' fly, letting himself make free with what's underneath, massaging it through the underwear, rubbing his cheek against it, inhaling the scent. His glasses are askew, his smile is beatific, and the sun burns golds and reds behind his eyelids. He steadies himself with one hand on the concrete floor and mouths Gibbs' cock under the white cotton.

Above him, Gibbs moans deep in his throat and shifts; steadying himself too, leaning against the boat. Palmer opens one eye and sees, between Gibbs' legs, the workbench, with its assorted instruments of carpentry.

"I like your tools," he says, and a moment later giggles, nudging Gibbs' heavy, hard cock again with the side of his face. Gibbs chuckles in response, but he's breathless too, and when Palmer looks up, he's nearly overwhelmed by the lust in his eyes, but no less by the unhidden affection.

He doesn't play anymore. He opens his mouth and says "Please" and keeps his mouth open while Gibbs above him groans as if he's wounded, and fumbles to take his cock out and holds it to Palmer's mouth. Palmer stretches his lips wide and takes him in, swallowing around the head and nodding back and forth, taking in as much as he can with each of Gibbs' shallow thrusts.

Gibbs smells more like soap than yesterday, a faint, pleasant smell over the much more distinct, darker scent of him. He tastes like precum and salt, and Palmer uses one hand to drag his underwear further down, take his balls out. His other hand holds on to Gibbs' leg, above the knee, feeling the tremors there, and Gibbs steadies himself and has one hand on Palmer's head, guiding and sometimes tightening in his short hair. Palmer sucks hard and breathes through his nose, feeling Gibbs' cock all the way to the back of his throat. When he glances up, Gibbs' eyes are screwed shut, his mouth open, his breaths shallow. He's holding back, Palmer thinks, and that bothers him. He sneaks his hand under fabric, into Gibbs' pants, inserting it between his thighs, under his balls. His thumb runs soft circles on the sensitive flesh.

Gibbs growls and holds his head tight, fingers harsh in his hair, keeping him in place; he pushes forward almost viciously, and Palmer moans in supplication even as the hot liquid floods his mouth. Gibbs releases his grip and Palmer pulls back, letting the very last shuddering squirts get him. The taste fills his mouth, his nostrils; the feel of hot drops on his cheek and on his lips makes him smile.

Gibbs' eyes are still closed as he struggles to find his breath.

"Amazing," he manages to squeeze out, gasping. He opens his eyes, looking down on Palmer, and something changes in his expression.

Palmer blinks at him through a stained, blurred vision. "I got some on my glasses," he says with an embarrassed grin.

And Gibbs exhales, long and deep, and then whispers, "Do you have any idea how hot that is?"

Palmer chokes on a response, shutting his own eyes momentarily in face of an overwhelming desire; he wishes he could take this moment with him, have this warm feeling forever. Then he unfolds, rising to his feet without much grace. He wipes his hand on his pants, removing the scratchy material picked up when he steadied himself on the floor.

"Sawdust," he explains, letting out a breathless chuckle. He's not ready for the attack, when it comes; Gibbs pushes him back against the wooden frame, taking his mouth in a vicious, uncontrolled kiss; taking it in a storm. Palmer kisses back and moans into the growl. The surprise took his breath away but that's not why he's panting; the wildness in Gibbs' eyes makes his cock so hard it nearly hurts.

Eventually, Gibbs calms, the kiss gradually slowing, his sudden hunger satiated. He takes a step back, still petting the side of Palmer's face, and looks him up and down.

"You have sawdust on your knees, too," he comments warmly.

That makes Palmer's smile widen even more. Without thought, he presses the heel of his hand against his pants, against his aching cock. The smell of the boat, of raw wood polished and sanded to perfection, etches in his mind. He leans back again, to feel the smoothness of it.

Gibbs moves forward again, flush against him, his thigh rubbing between Palmer's legs. His mouth fastens on Palmer's throat. Palmer lets his head fall backwards and pushes his hips insistently against Gibbs. His hands slide behind Gibbs, holding him closer, fingers pressing into flesh over the seat of his pants.

"Hands behind your back," Gibbs murmurs, low and a little amused, and Palmer obeys instantly, arms dropping and wrists crossing behind the stiff board at his back.

Gibbs removes his glasses, and gently runs a finger above his brow.

"You have beautiful eyes, Jimmy," he whispers, and Palmer's breath catches in his throat. The compliment is all the more absolute because it's so shocking, coming from Gibbs. If he ever needed a reassurance, this is it. He keeps his hands behind him by sheer force of will; Gibbs kisses him again and Palmer moans, the moment soft and romantic to him despite the urgency of his cock.

And Gibbs, being Gibbs, doesn't leave him hanging; a rough hand pushes into his pants, into his underwear. Palmer's soft moans grow louder, ending in a sharp gasp when Gibbs' hand finally wraps around his cock, jerking it out in one smooth move and setting immediately into a quick, harsh rhythm.

"I'll tease you, one day," Gibbs whispers, and Palmer's knees buckle even as he's pushing into that large, warm hand, "tie you here and see how long I can keep you..."

Not very long at the moment, Palmer thinks in a haze, hips snapping back into the hard wood of the boat's frame and then forward into the hard, slick grip.

"Keep your hands there," Gibbs instructs, and Palmer consciously pulls himself back into position, crossing his wrists and pressing them against the wood, hoping it would leave a mark, hoping the sharpness and the slight pain would keep him focused enough to not let his arms drop again.

He grinds back again, hoping there are no splinters, and Gibbs' hand is rough and sure on him, milking mercilessly until he comes with a shout, fingers laced and knuckles white, Gibbs' white teeth gently closing on his earlobe.

He slides along the beam until he hits the sawdust-covered concrete, and stretches his legs straight out, keeping the other man between them.

"It's an interesting way of christening a boat," Gibbs says. He brings his fingers to his mouth and licks delicately at them with the tip of his tongue. Palmer groans heartily. "Tasty," Gibbs comments. Palmer's eyes roll a little, and then he tries to focus on that pink tongue and Gibbs' fingers.

He looks around. "Where are my glasses?"

"Up on the boat," Gibbs says, reaching for the top of the keel and fetching the carefully balanced pair, pausing to wipe them with his shirttail. He crouches in front of Palmer and places the glasses on his nose. Palmer blinks up at him with gratitude. Gibbs gives him a quick peck on the lips, and straightens up.

"What time is it?" Palmer asks, at the same time that Gibbs says "You want to think about getting up from there."

They both pause, smile at each other. Gibbs gives him a hand, and Palmer stands up, holding his pants before they fall off.

"My boat's going to leave a print on your ass," Gibbs says, and Palmer feels another lazy stir in his cock. It's too late for this, he tells himself sternly. It doesn't help that Gibbs turns him around in one swift motion, pushing on his shoulders. Palmer lets slip all thoughts about work, for a moment, but Gibbs was merely surveying what damage was done. When he spins Palmer back, there's that content, pleased air about him again.

"We should," Palmer starts, clears his throat, starts again, "We should probably go."

"Probably," Gibbs agrees, a little more lazily than Palmer would have expected. They start up the stairs, Palmer zipping his pants and doing his belt on the way.

"Maybe if there's no case, we can meet again after work?" he says hopefully. "That is, if you're not doing anything... I mean..."

He's not sure about the decorum of asking for a second date so early after a night which may or may not have even been a date in the first place. He feels comfortable here, with Gibbs, but he's been known to feel comfortable just before disaster strikes.

Gibbs, with a small smile, takes pity on him. He marches Palmer across the house, muttering in his ear, "After work today, huh? If there's no case..." He pauses by the front door. "I think I'll want to do some gardening," he says casually.

Palmer isn't sure why they're standing there, Gibbs behind him, arm around his waist, Gibbs' chin in the crook of his neck.

"G... gardening?" he asks, confused.

Gibbs rests two fingers on his jaw and tilts his head towards the door. There, right next to an umbrella stand, there's a pair of dusty, beat-up work boots, just as Palmer had imagined them last night; brown, scuffed leather. Some dry, old dirt. He imagines Gibbs wearing them, puttering around the rose bushes in his garden, imagines himself following. He inhales and leans back against Gibbs' warmth, pressing with slight movements up and down.

"Bad boy," Gibbs breathes in his ear; he grasps his arms and pushes him gently away. Palmer moans again, eyes closing. The next sentence is in a perfectly normal tone and pitch, and catches him by surprise. "D'ya wanna help?"

"Hm?" Palmer says, startled.

"With the gardening," Gibbs repeats patiently.

"Yes!" Palmer nearly shouts, and then catches himself. "I mean..."

"You mean yes, Palmer," Gibbs says, soothingly low.

Palmed moans again, happiness colouring the sound. "Yes."

 

===========Later that morning:===========

 

Although Gibbs offers to give Palmer a change of clothes, the younger man prefers to drive home, take a shower, wear his own suit.

"And if I'm late, I could always tell Dr. Mallard that you kept me up," he says, with humour.

Gibbs doesn't look like he finds it funny. His expression is anything but amused. "Palmer, if you think this can influence your work..."

"I was kidding," Palmer says very quickly, very self-consciously. "I was just kidding."

"Don't," Gibbs says shortly. "Not about work, not _at_ work."

"I get it," Palmer nods. All traces of humour leave his face, his tone.

"Palmer." Gibbs catches his gaze, holds it. "I mean it. Nothing changes at work."

"I know," Palmer says meekly. He feels chastised, and rightly so. He should know better; Gibbs keeps his private life and his work life as separate as possible, and he should do the same.

"When we're off a case, it's fine," Gibbs says, more softly. "Off work, it's fine." He reaches to caress Palmer's cheek, almost in apology for the gruff tone. But his voice is hard again when he repeats, "But not at work."

"No, I know. I know. You're absolutely right." Palmer looks down at his shoelaces. "I guess I'll be going now. It's getting late."

"Wait one minute," Gibbs says, and without warning, Palmer finds himself involved in a goodbye kiss of the kind that is more welcoming than a goodbye kiss ought to be. Gibbs' hand is on the back of his head, holding him to a searching mouth and a knowing tongue, reminding him of all the pleasures of last night, of earlier this morning.

When they finally part, any nerves or misgivings Palmer may have had are gone. This is worth everything.

He gives a dazed, lust-struck smile. "I'll see you at work then?"

"Count on it," Gibbs grumbles, and then Palmer is out the door and in his car, driving home in the morning wearing last night's clothes, and revelling in the feeling of every speed bump and pothole on the way.

 

===========A Good Morning in NCIS:===========

 

At work, the smells and sights of a cadaver, and Ducky's long and convoluted tale about stork migration of all things, take Palmer's mind successfully off his recent discoveries and achievements. He doesn't think about it twice until Gibbs storms in to take some papers.

Gibbs barely looks at him. He barely looks at Gibbs, instead busying himself with some sample containers. Ducky is conducting a pleasant, amiable conversation with Gibbs, and Palmer is trying very hard not to drop anything.

"I'll see you, Palmer," he hears, and lifts his head just in time to see Gibbs heading for the door. "Later, Duck."

And he's gone. Ducky turns slowly, his eyes resting on Palmer.

Eventually, the tension is too much for him. "Yes, doctor?"

A smile begins to shine on Ducky's lips. "I do think Agent Gibbs has taken a liking to you, Mr. Palmer."

Palmer is too stunned to reply for long moments. Ducky returns to the corpse on the table.

"...Uh, why do you say that?"

"Say what?" Ducky glances up and frowns. "Do you plan to rejoin us any time soon, Mr. Palmer? Or will you spend the rest of the day holding that jar?"

"No, no. Yes. Uh," at Ducky's glare, "I'll be right back with you."

"Good," Ducky says with finality.

Palmer returns the container to its place, glances one more time at the door, glances a longer time at Ducky's turned back, and then joins the ME in his work. If the doctor notices anything, he says nothing about the bright, inappropriate smile his assistant sports through the rest of the procedure.


End file.
